


Revolver

by Opheliac



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: M/M, Masturbation, mentions of canon torture, mentions of past suicide attempt, might be seen as onesided, this is basically Bucky having sex with himself
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-24
Updated: 2015-06-24
Packaged: 2018-04-05 22:24:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4197222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Opheliac/pseuds/Opheliac
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The only sound he enjoys hearing, when it's late at night and his brain picks exactly the worse memories he has to flash them in the back of his eyelids, is the deep breathing of Steve, asleep in the room beside his.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Revolver

**Author's Note:**

> i am so, so glad with the response i had from my other fic, so i decided to try and post another work. it's short, but I had fun writing, so i hope you have fun reading!  
> name was borrowed out of a BUCK-TICK song.

The whiskey on the rocks in his hand filters the light coming from the street, and the water speckled window projects dancing ghosts on the wall behind him. He can't sleep, again, and it's exhausting how it keeps happening whenever he manages to shut his eyes for a more than a few seconds. It's almost like it's real, the feeling of fire sparking through his brain, hurting, erasing, scarring. He sits up on the bed, rubs the heels of his hands against his tired eyes and kicks his way out of bed. The silence is calming, though, and Bucky gladly resorts on it. There was never silence, never this solid quietude when they had him. The only sound he enjoys hearing, when it's late at night and his brain picks exactly the worse memories he has to flash them in the back of his eyelids, is the deep breathing of Steve, asleep in the room beside his. One night, he spent over an hour sitting outside, eyes closed and ears alert, just hearing the intakes of breath, followed by slow exhales. Currently, he is sitting in the tiny excuse for an office Steve has, slumped against the black leather chair, rolling the ice cubes around his third shot of whiskey lazily. When he finally takes a sip, it's watery and he pulls a face, setting the glass silently over the mahogany table.

He knows the darkness around his eyes would definitely increase at some point, and Bucky could almost see the perpetual look of worry in Steve's eyes when he looked at him, while stirring their scrambled eggs. It wasn't like he could do anything to stop it, and he himself wanted to get some shut eye, for everything holy. He just couldn't. Each night for a different reason. Night terrors usually wake him but his drifting thoughts certainly help keep him up. Bucky looks around the semi dark office, at Steve's perfectly organized book shelf, he sees Steve smiling at him in the back of his mind.  _You can read any book you want, Buck. Any of them._  Bucky feels tempted to actually pull a book out, for the first time, and read. It sounds better than sitting in the office staring at some undefined point through the window and drinking all night. He gives up, though, because reading would demand a light on and Steve will certainly wake up if he turns on the light.

Instead, Bucky sighs at himself. His hands are over his lap now, he looks at his flesh fingers and flexes them repeatedly. He's long since stopped being disgusted by his left arm, and the soft whirring sounds it makes are comforting by now, after he remembered feeling an excruciating pain in a limb that did not exist. Bucky lifts his left hand against the light coming from the window, and sees the plates of his arm bathed in a pretty faint yellow. He thinks of Steve's hair, the golden dust of soft strands over his head, and Bucky finds himself sighing. It's been a few months since he moved in with Steve, after almost a year living in a lab inside one of the new SHIELD bases. They had made their best to keep him comfortable, but in the end, he really wasn't making as much progress as he could surrounded by people in lab coats. He hated being surrounded by people in lab coats, and hated whenever they had to touch him. So yes, living with Steve had made him stable, kept the crisis at bay. Steve calms him down whenever he feels about to go into a fit, and he proudly admits to anyone who asks him that he never, ever tried to hurt Steve again.

Thinking of Steve makes him feel warm. As if he was being embraced by arms much bigger than him, and his heart leaps up in his chest but not in the way he did when they dragged him to the chair. When the machines closed around his head. No, nothing like that. The thought that someone as kind as Steve cared so much about him was thrilling because he never had anyone being so selflessly concerned about his well being. No one made him scrambled eggs with extra cheese simply because he liked.

Though it hurts sometimes. When he thinks that Steve treats him so kindly, spoils him even, just because Steve misses the other guy. The Bucky Steve had grown up with, that was one hell of a womanizer and that pulled Steve out of stupid fights just before he had all the bones in his body broken. Steve misses the other guy, and Bucky is disappointed because he can't be him. He is silent, starts easily, has a bad time finding sleep at night and is still very wary of Steve's friends, even the two girls. Steve always smiles, always dismisses that line of thinking as _Buck, I just want you to be yourself. Promise. You don't have to be the same, I'm not the same either, but we’re still ourselves somehow, get it?_  Bucky doesn't get it. Steve changed for best, he didn't.

Bucky slides his hand up from his lap to his chest, itching lazily over the deep blue flannel of his sleeping shirt. His eyes close, and Bucky lifts the shirt with his other hand. The cool metal against his skin feels oddly comforting. He touches over his chest, the nubs of his nipples, his abdomen and the line of the hem of his sleeping pants. He pushes them down, and thinks of when Steve had accidentally cut his hand while slicing tomatoes for dinner. He was scared, terrified to see Steve bleeding, but Steve shook his head and smiled.  _It's fine, Buck, ‘s just a cut. I'll heal from it really fast, don't worry._  Bucky loves Steve smile, and hates to see him worried or upset. His hand slide back down to his lap. He feels around, lets his fingertips graze along his thighs as he shifts on the chair. There is a raging scar in his right thigh, and Bucky remembers it well enough. 1954, he was training with a dagger, sliced through his femoral artery. He wasn't numb yet back then, and he is certainly not numb anymore. The touch makes his body stir positively in response. His silver fingertips slide over his half hard cock, and he breathes out a sigh, opening his eyes momentarily to see. Bucky traces the shaft again, rubs slowly at the thin skin connecting it to the still soft head, and wraps his hand firmly around the base of his own cock. He thinks of when he heard Steve breathing once, from the hallway, but it wasn't slow inhaling and exhaling. He sounded more as he had been running.

The feeling makes him let out a low hiss. He strokes his wrist up, cups the head and rubs, and it somehow yanks a slightly louder sound from his lips. Bucky tugs down, then up, then down again, and closes his eyes once more. He thinks of when Steve joined him in the tub, of such warm and kind hands washing his back patiently, then disentangling his hair. Steve has the most piercing blue eyes Bucky has ever seen and it makes him speed up the strokes of his wrist a little, when he thinks of the way Steve looks at him. It has no trace of pity, or anger. Steve looks at him with a deep longing, with affection, sometimes pride. Bucky moans Steve's name as a prayer.

The office is suddenly slushing around him, and Bucky feels a bit too hot. There is something wet trickling from his temple, and he shivers at it. His left hand is moving faster, and he hears a still low slapping sound each time he pushes his hand down. His right hand moves up to touch his chest. Bucky thinks of Steve coming into his room in the middle of the night, just to check on him. Sometimes he's dressed in sleeping clothes, other times not, but he's always quiet and careful, and sometimes he caresses through Bucky's hair. He feels his muscles tighten, almost as they did when the shocks rippled through his skull, though this time there's no pain. He cries out anyway, because he's thinking of Steve touching where he is touching now, and Steve is smiling at him, saying he's okay, saying he's doing great.

Bucky nearly shrieks when it happens, when something shoots out of his cock and lands over his abdomen. It feels impossibly hot, and Bucky stares now, at the consistent white fluid for a moment, only snapping out of it when some trickles down to Steve's chair. He’s wiping at the mess with his recently removed shirt when he hears a soft knock on the door.

“Buck, you in there? ‘S everything okay?” Steve sounds sleepy and worried, and Bucky curses lowly. “I heard you scream. Were you dreaming?”

Bucky grins, though it's humorless. He was probably dreaming, and eventually he'll just have to tell Steve why he was locked in the office and not in his bed but not right now. Right now he just wants to look at Steve and tell him he's alright. He was just dreaming.

**Author's Note:**

> ........ did I do good?


End file.
